“What DO you want?” I asked.
“We want a SON,” said Farrell; “an adopted son. We want to adopt YOU!”
“You want to WHAT?” I asked.
To learn if Mrs. Farrell also was mad, I glanced toward her, but her expression was inscrutable. The face of the Irishman had grown purple.
“And why not?” he demanded. “You are a famous young man, all right, and educated. But there's nothing about me I'm ashamed of! I'm worth five million dollars and I made every cent Of it myself—and I made it honest. You ask Dun or Bradstreet, ask——”
I attempted to soothe him.
“THAT'S not it, sir,” I explained. “It's a most generous offer, a most flattering, complimentary offer. But you don't know me. I don t know you. Choosing a son is a very——”
“I've had you looked up,” announced Mrs. Farrell. “The Pinkertons give you a high rating. I hired 'em to trail you for six months.”
I wanted to ask WHICH six months, but decided to let sleeping dogs lie. I shook my head. Politely but firmly I delivered my ultimatum.
“It is quite impossible!” I said firmly.